I can fry a couple of eggs on my abdomen, can you?

sizzle, shmizzle
sizzle, shmizzle

I can also pop corn on my face. Pretty impressive you’re thinking, ha?

Warning to all male readers: I am about to delve into the anatomy of a hot flash. This may mean talk of lady parts (though doubtful), cycles that coincide with the moon, and all things related to estrogen, and the natural biological process of what I call, estrogen-not.

You’re still here. Nice. After all, you have wives, moms, and daughters. You’re a real mensch (good-hearted person) for staying! So, as I was saying, my body has run cold my entire life. Blue fingers and lips when it’s 89 degrees in the shade…no joke! I wear many layers of clothing all year round. And yes, I’m at that age where that mysterious metamorphosis  materializes.

I remember back in the day, getting happy when I got carded before entering a bar. It’s the exact same feeling now when the doctor or lab technician says, “Do you still get your period honey?” Go Girrrrrrrrrrrl!

It’s crazy, from the moment that first red dot appeared, I despised it. My parents, they made such a taka mitziah (big fucking deal) out of it – took me out to dinner? My mother, she told the waitress. Attention Judy Blume: you, God and Margaret did not help me to prep me for a scenario like that. “I’ll have the nova platter with an everything bagel, toasted lightly, cream cheese on the side; Morty, he’ll have the stuffed cabbage, and my daughter, she got her period today!” That was a long time ago, but the memory is etched in my brain.

And now, look at me, saving energy by cooking on my sizzling body parts! I’m finally one hot momma! At first, I had maybe 3 hot flashes, and that was it. I thought, well that was easy! Today, I get my schvitz (a deep, heavy sweat) on maybe 8, 9, 23 times a day (and night). This schvitz emanates from the subterranean parts of my core and rises both up and out simultaneously. Toxins and impurities run scared from every molecule of my being.

While this little body convection oven starts cooking, my heart, she races. Archetypal fight or flight heart palpitations, like the saber-toothed tiger is running after me, mittendrinnen (in the middle of ) every fucking thing. My fingers, they tingle (which is good, because I have to flip the eggs to cook evenly). And a perfect coating of sweat covers every single square inch of my person, from the waist up. I’m lichticheh (lit-up) and radiant. They don’t call this a flash for nothing! As quickly as she starts, she’s over. After, I get a little bit chilly. Oy vey iz mer.

Does this mean I’m an alta kocker (literally, the term means an old shit, but over the years, pleasantries have reduced the term to more akin with, ‘old fart’)? Hell no! I think age is a just a state of mind. My Little and my Big, they keep me young. I’m reliving the childhood I missed get with them, and loving almost every minute of it. And, I gotta stay young to take care of my Mrs.

For now, I’ll make eggs, or pop popcorn, and take solace in knowing that I am still being responsible and frugal for my family. Spa, shmah! For a schvitz like THIS, it would cost an arm and a leg.

Note: no eggs were harmed during the writing of this post. And Alannis, isn’t it a bissel (little bit) ironic that when my eggs cease to produce, I can scramble, poach, sunny-side up and over-easy like a pro right atop those ovaries? Next up, omelets. 

Nu?

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Rant, Shmant: The Time Conundrum?

Tick-tock, tick-tock...
Tick-tock, tick-tock…

Quiet please, for this session is very important…Week 13

Where does it go when 24/7 is the new norm? 81 years is the average age for a woman in the U.S. to live, less so for a man. How do we spend our time? What makes us happy? What constitutes a life well lived? I suppose those answers change from person to person.

2 reasons right here...
2 reasons right here…

I’m soon to be 636 months old. Am I doing the things that matter to me? Am I grateful? What do I want more of? What do I do too much of? If I have roughly 336 months left, how should they be spent? How could they be spent?

I work really hard. I do not have wealth, and I am rich in many ways. I live with extreme physical pain, and I savor the many pleasurable feelings of joy. I have had struggles and tsuris (troubles) for what feels too long a time, and I revel in laughter and glee. I have been hurt and I seek no harm to others. I’m not where I want to be, physically or fiscally, and I am so lucky to be surrounded by those I love and who love me.

This life, it seems it is filled with hundreds of invisible tugs of war that one encounters at unpredictable checkpoints along the way. Everyone’s road is different. Sometimes one can pass through the obstacles with ease while others require extra adeptness and newfound compassion.

Where is the balance among the commotion? How does one teeter what feels good and what hurts? Ethics, morals, values, pain, conflict, money, love, empathy, gratitude, compassion…is there a pattern? I don’t have that answer. I don’t see a pattern.

If time is finite, I need handle it with care. If energy is fixed, I should expend wisely. If my body craves healing, I need to treasure restoration. I fear there is no bargaining at this table.

I do work that is meaningful. My heart lives for and with my family, great friends. Such naches (joy and happiness) I get, from the Mrs. and der kinder (the children). I hold my loved ones closely and dearly. I am grateful.

Thanks for letting me speak (well, okay, type). I can stop kvetching (complaining), at least about time, for I think I have resolved the answer to my enigma. Wish me much mazel (good luck)!

Are you living your life well? A bei gezunt (As long as your healthy)!

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Gotta go, gotta go, gotta go right now!

Eyes, don’t deceive me now… Sometimes, you just have to wonder. Like for instance, when I was walking around on my lunch break, and came across this vision:

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Either things are really progressing when it comes to dog-walking, or people are really digressing in terms of dealing with nature calling. Color me silly, but I fear the latter.

So, I tried to think about what other passers-by might have thought as they meandered across this less than idyllic scene. Please, as you read these next lines, conjure up the voice of an alte kocker (an old Jewish man or woman) for effect.

I should stop here a sec before we get to their house.” -translation: If you would have stopped along the way, like I begged you to, I wouldn’t have to pee in this nogoodnik’s (one with low morals) outdoor mess.

I should stop here a sec before we get to their house.” -translation: Oy, a balebustah (homemaker) she is not. Better I should go here, it’s probably cleaner.

“I should stop here a sec before we get to their house.” -translation: What, you think there is something wrong with that? I could brech (vomit) from the thought of eating her food. 

“I should stop here a sec before we get to their house.” -translation: Look at this drek (crap). What kind of neighborhood is this anyway?

“I should stop here a sec before we get to their house.” -translation: What? If you had a prostate you would understand! Mittendrinen (in the middle of everything), this is a mitzvah (good deed).

What? No toilet paper? A shanda (it’s a shame).

 

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Beauty and the Beast: the real deal

Beauty and the Beast
Beauty and the Beast

Growing up, my mother told us (Shvesters) we were gorgeous. It was disingenuous. Even back then, at a very young age, I knew her words were for her. She would often fish for compliments with total strangers, coyly at the grocery store baggers, at restaurants with wait staff. To her credit, she was, and still remains a very nice-looking person. She took great pains to stay attractive, now approaching eighty years of life. Motivation for her was to look good on the arm of my father. Not a whole lot more going on, unfortunately.

My sister—her beauty comes au natural and is throughout. She favors my mom and has maintained a statuesque 3+ inches over her since the early teen years. Both were, and still are, very attractive. My shvester, she is truly beautiful, inside and out.

As a kid, I looked, and still highly resemble my father, who looks like his father did. Funny, resemblance was never a thing I could see until I became a mom. Likeness via DNA is powerful. I can stand at the airport or a movie theatre, a bookstore, and spot the packs of gene-poolers as they pass by. (Let the record show, that as a mom, I can also now detect fever and/or illness with my bare hand, nose picking clear from another room, and I have become completely desensitized to vomit and other bodily secretions that spout from the kinder. Prior to the arrival of Little and Big, none of these things were possible. I thought motherhood would also empower me the knowledge of how to fold a fitted sheet, but epic momma-fail there.)

Back to the premise here: The Mrs., she is a pure beauty. She even looks good with a paper hat atop her head during holiday dinners (just ask her mom! It’s no joke–and sorry, she won’t let me post one for proof). The kinder, my shana madelahs—together, I have three stunners from their inside core to the outer shell that is our body.

Me? No eye candy here. No meeskait; no train wreck, mind you, just normal. Well, less than average height and weight; run-of-the-mill graying of hair. My face is ‘a bit too well lined with character’ for my baby boomer ‘end of an era’ birthday. And, I will not for one moment, lose sleep over any of this. Why? Because I know I am a good person with a good core. Not just the ‘six-pack’ kind.

I do not fuss with my hair or even use a comb or brush. I had a fleeting encounter with makeup in my sophomore year in college (Bernice, remember?). I saw cotton balls in my home for the first time when the Mrs. first moved (in 1998!). I still have no clue what their main purpose holds. I want to thank Nature’s Knowledge for letting me know I can add some apple cider vinegar to a cotton ball and use it as toner for my face. (I do this now!) My outfit of choice is jeans, Dansko’s and several layers of shirts, and a hoody to keep warm (Blizzard of 2016 Jonas or not). Yes, I’m happiest in a hoody and sneaks, just like big-Daddy Zuckerberg himself. I despise dressing up and find shopping to dress up even worse. I come to you purely, sans schmaltz. What you see is what you get, always. And when you know me, you can see me inside and out. That’s the emmes truth.

Little and Big
Little and Big

My kinder are the ‘girliest’ of girls. I have learned to spy, with my little eye, a dress that has good twirl (this matters)…shoes and leggings that will enhance with sparkle, dazzle and élan, and what will ultimately make my daughters smile like Cheshire Cats. The fashionista-gene has been passed, along with the wherewithal to shop. I have made the case for pink chucks to no avail. Recently, Big announced she wanted a pair of pants! To my ears, such music! Kvelling!

So, not too long ago, that nice chap with the white beard and jolly red suit, he brought us tickets to see Beauty and the Beast (Feb.)! After studying the picture Mr. Claus left with the tickets, Little said, “Ema is Beauty, and Mommy is the Beast!” Okay!

Not long after, I was told that the same kinder, spry little fox that she is, was discussing Harry Potter and said, “Mommy can be Dumbledore.”

Thankfully I have thick skin, a good sense of humor, and the joy in knowing that my kids find me worthy of a Disney extravaganza! How can that be bad? I remain unscathed and well hooded. I embrace my inner and or outer beast and welcome another delightful day in momma’s house. After all, how many kids think their momma is Broadway Bound? Out of the mouths of these babes, right? Nu? 

 

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Who is She?

ToothbrushI have to share with you the craziest thing that keeps happening to me. Each and every day, when I brush my teeth in the morning and at night, someone else is there brushing right there with me! Not in a ghostly way, or a spiritual way, or even a Harry Potter-esque way. It’s insane. She resembles me, I guess. Which in turn means she looks like my Dad (minus the dreaded comb-over). She has much whiter hair, much paler face and a she’s a bit gaunt and wrinkly. She is never anywhere else around the house. She’s not in the car. She’s not at the office where I work. She’s never reading or playing with the kids. She certainly doesn’t do the laundry around here…baffling how she has the same oral hygienic proclivities as me, in my very own bathroom, in my very own home. A fastidious flosser she is!

If she’s going to be here, she might as well do her part. Cook, shop, clean? Did I mention she should cook?

30Could that person be me? Really? Could my very own image of myself be so distorted that I am still recalling ‘the me’ of my 30’s? Or even my 20’s? Sheeze, at this point I’ll take ‘me’ in my 40’s! I’ve had a lot of diagnoses in my life, but am I really coming dangerously close to being an alte kocker (literally, an old fart?)? I already have an AARP card. When did this happen? How dare she, this woman, show up in my bathroom mirror, of all places, with the chutzpah to expose my vision of myself, to me, of all people! Oy vey.

Well they say age is just a number. As long as you’re healthy, a bei gezhunt

You’re only as old as you feel. Feel, shmeel. Let’s stop this right now.

IMG_0894I can walk away from that reflection, and be just fine. No need to be farhklempt. Age happens. I have a beautiful family, a loving partner, and two wonderful and sensitive daughters. I have more energy than all three of them put together (even with chronic pain-well mostly). I need to stop kvetching and keep kvelling. Look at all that is good in my life. Such naches. I am grateful. And yes, I am 52. Six hundred and thirty-seven months old (thank goodness, this horrid way of calculating age stops early).

I won’t think about this again (at least until tonight, before bed).

What’s a girl woman to do?

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